If I had a time machine I would go back and stab you before you were born.

When not appearing as poster boy for the DunningKruger effect, Scott divides his time between eating and 'writing' on his beige blog in an attempt to prove to the world that everything on this website is fake.

The emails posted on this website are verbatim. Having said that, I do, on occasion, change the person's name and fix spelling errors, as is my prerogative, prior to posting.

Articles on this site that are not emails, are exaggerated but feature people that I know or work with. I admit that I have never actually been into space.

Davey Davey Davey. You let the ball slip on this one. Your last article about George from West Virginia calling you a foggot must be fake because you are in Australia which is 13 hours and 30 minutes ahead of West Virginia. Seeing as you would use your local time in your emails, this would mean George would be awake and writing emails at 5:21am, 8:38am, 11:48pm, and 1:32am unless you have a time machine.

Thank you for sharing the results of your time zone research. While some might describe your behaviour as obsessive, I prefer to think of you as special. Like one of those children that spins until they vomit or collects Pogs. Despite having nobody to play Pogs with. Although I am currently in the US, rendering your blunt point less pointy, I do, coincidentally, own a time machine.

My time machine is shaped like a closet. I discovered its capabilities purely by accident one day when I climbed in, sat there for a bit, and emerged to find myself in the future. Which is almost exactly like the present except a little darker. I was expecting to see robots and flying cars but there weren't any. If I had a flying car, I would fly to your house and say "Look Scott, I have a flying car, I would love to take you for a ride but unfortunately your weight exceeds that of future anti-gravity propulsion technologies." You would probably become irrational with envy and attempt to catch me but due to what leg muscles you have atrophying from too many hours spent on the computer researching world time zones, you wouldn't be able to jump very high and I would hover just a few inches above your sausage-like finger flailing.

While I have not yet been successful in my attempts to travel backwards in time, only forward, if I climb into the closet backwards this will probably work. I plan on traveling back to the year 2009 to see what it was like before continuing my journey back to your grade seven class and explaining to a young Scott that while his current metabolism may be able to cope with forty Twinkies per day and an exercise routine consisting of breathing and blinking, it is patently going to catch up with him in later life. I will also attempt to explain that time spent on obsessive jealousy is time that would be better spent exploring his own capabilities. I will then give him a slap.

I have attached a drawing of my time machine should you wish to build your own in order to travel back several hours to construct a better argument or several years to take up jogging.

Lolcats5000. Your nonsense and lies prove nothing. I'm easily twice as intelligent as you are, I'm not fat and at least the stories on my website are factual. Should it make for less interesting reading, then so be it. You should do some research on time travel before you make a fool of yourself. To travel through time you need to travel faster than the speed of light. A closet can't move. If I built a time machine I'd do the world a favor and go back in time and stop your mother from reproducing.

Your attempt to convince my mother not to procreate would be unsuccessful as I would simply go back a few minutes before you appeared and tell her not to listen to men wearing elastic waistband pants. I would also hide behind a tree until you showed up and give you a slap as you waddled past.

While it would be irresponsible for me to condone your obsessive behaviour, I do understand it. When I was in grade three, I was obsessed with a girl named Emma Jenkins. As neither of us knew cursive, I sought to impress her by tracing several pages of script from an old manuscript and, stating that it was a love letter and I had known cursive since the age of two, presented it to her. That night, Emma's father rang my mother with instructions that I was not to communicate with their seven year old daughter again. Either socially or via letters describing her child bearing hips and round Victorian buttocks. Another time, obsessively jealous of the fact Bradley McPherson had been selected to play the lead role in our fifth grade school play, I constructed a plan to make him ill. Figuring this would automatically give me his role of King of the Faeiries and someone else would take over mine as tree number two, I collected several snot laden tissues from my flu-ridden sister's bedside table and took them to school the next day. With a thin film of the mucus covering my hands, I demonstrated to Bradley the correct procedure for shaking hands before betting him that he could not fit a whole fist in his mouth. Unfortunately, while Bradley was fine the night of the play, I was not. Unable to find a replacement for tree number two and dosed up with half a bottle of Robitussin and several flu tablets, I managed to fullfill my role of standing still with my arms held up for about ten minutes before inexplicably deciding it would be appropriate to sing The Safety Dance by Men Without Hats. Luckily, Emma, dressed as a giant mushroom, broke my fall as I passed out.

Although, going by your argument, you have just emailed me at 2.57am meaning your email must be fabricated, I accept your critical analysis of my design and have attached a modified version incorporating your technical and personal requirements.

If you managed to persuade my mother not to procreate, I would not exist to send you the plans for constructing your own time machine in which to travel back in time to persuade my mother not to procreate. Apparently this is known as a pair of ducks. I have no idea why but assume it alludes to the fact that if a duck were capable of constructing a time machine and traveling back in time to meet itself, there would be two of them. One would probably need to wear a hat or something to avoid confusion.

If I did go back in time and meet myself, I would have a good look at the back of my head. If you went back in time and met yourself, you would have someone to play Pogs with.

It's paradox imbecile, not pair of ducks. For someone who thinks they are smart you are not very smart. My intellect is far superior to yours so it would be simple for me to stay one step ahead of you. Just as I always do. I'd just go back and stab you before you were born or go back to 1998 and register the name google and use some of my billions to pay for a hit on you.

As no man is an island, regardless of size, it is hardly surprising that the weight of your obsession would require hiring professional help. But, your attempt to purchase the Google name would prove unsuccessful as I would travel back to 1988 and invent the internet, adding a clause that Benny Hill look-a-likes with pathological disorders stemming from issues with self-confidence and self-esteem, are not allowed to use it.

This would not only foil your plan to own Google but also save people the misfortune of clicking on your blog when googling the word 'beige'. Although encouragement, rather than reprimand, may be the key to persuading a slow child to stop defecating in the bath, there eventually comes a time when you just pull the plug and slap him.

My blog isnt beige imbecile. Its a color I invented called Priceless Coral. It looks a lot better than your artsy-fartsy nonsense and is a lot better designed. Learn from someone that knows what they're doing on the internets. Good design is about readability and great content. I'm not interested in continuing this converstation when I have already proven my point so you can fuck off now.

This is David from the future and I am sending you good news. Due to changes in media based stereotypes, spherical is now considered the ideal body type and Pogs is an Olympic sport. Also, priceless coral is the new black.

This is Scott from the past and I am sending you good news. It seems David has let the ball slip. His last article about george from West Virginia calling him a foggot is obviously fake because he is in Australia which is 13 hours and 30 minutes ahead of West Virginia. Seeing as he would use his local time in his emails, this would mean George would be awake and writing emails at 5:21am, 8:38am, 11:48pm, and 1:32am unless he too has a time machine. You should email him this fact.